


Brock's Little Bitch

by hayvocado



Series: Series of Sin [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Brock needs therapy, Choking, Do not touch this if you could be triggered in any way, F/M, Face Slapping, Gunplay, HYDRA Trash Party, I'm not kidding, Infatuation, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Medical Horror, Rape, Restraints, Sadism, This is really fucked up and I'm sorry, Torture, Truly Horrible, and apparently so do I, autassassinophilia, please heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6626425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayvocado/pseuds/hayvocado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you wake up in a cage in an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar man that really wants you naked, well...things happen.</p><p>~~~~~~</p><p>Also known as that one time I had a dream that this happened to me and the demon in me told me to share it with you all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brock's Little Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> SinSinSinSinSin. I'm going to hell.

You wake up suddenly, a throbbing pain in your head and a terrible feeling in your gut. Sitting up far too quickly, you smack the top of your head into a...cage? Looking around you, you realize that you are inside of a literal cage, as in a dog crate.

You go to reach towards the bars when you realize that your hands are duct taped together in front of you, wrists crossed in an uncomfortable, bone-grinding manner. Taking in the condition of your whole body, you notice that you are a) naked aside from your bra and underwear, b) bruised in quite a few places--look at those skinned knees--and c) in a _fucking_ cage.

You glance around the room you're in, desperately trying to find an explanation for your situation. When all you find is darkness, you start shaking, on the verge of a panic attack, until you hear footsteps just to your left.

Looking over, you are first met with two incredibly large and heavy looking combat boots, one of which looks to have a gun tucked into the side of it. Dragging your eyes up your captors body, you see thick black cargo pants, gun holsters on his hips, a black shirt, and a well chiseled face, topped with impeccably styled black hair.

_Hey, I know that face…_

You stare at him in confusion and horror for the better half of a minute before it finally clicks.

“You’re the guy from the bar,” you croak out weakly. One of his eyebrows quirks up, seemingly impressed with your memory. _Sorry you didn't roofie me right, you bastard._

“Clever girl. I didn't think you’d get it so quickly. You must've done well in school.” He runs a hand through his hair and begins to pace before the cage.

“Summa Cum Laude,” you mutter.

He kicks the side of the cage so hard that it topples over and you land on your shoulder, across the rough wires. Groaning, you sit back up, momentarily disoriented.

“Don't fucking talk.” He spits the words out, livid. Leaning as close as he possibly could, he brings his face a mere two inches away from yours. “If you speak without being spoken to, you’ll be punished. Understood?” You nod fervently. “What was that?”

“Y-Yes,” you whisper.

“‘Yes’, what?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s a good little slut.”

Normally, you’d balk at the name, but right now, you couldn't help but feel like that’s the nicest thing you’ll get out of this endeavor. He grabs what was originally the top of the cage and throws it back the direction it had fallen from, jostling the cage back into its upright position. The movement left you with a new bruise on the side of your face, and a large cut on your hip.

The man grabs onto the crate door with his left hand, nearly ripping it off of its hinges. With his right hand, he reaches through the tiny doorway and grabs you by your hair, dragging you out of the enclosure. You yelp as he yanks you across the room onto a queen-sized mattress on the floor. Once you fall into the corner, he discards his shirt and steps towards you.  Yanking you back into a standing position, he undoes the tape from your wrists and pushes you away  

“Strip,” he orders.

You look at him, gaze beseeching, and he takes a step closer to you.

“Take. Off. Your. Clothes.” You hesitate again and he surges forward, twisting a hand into your hair again. “ _Now_." Keeping your eyes locked on the ground, you unhook your bra, allowing the straps to slip down your shoulders. Once it falls to the floor, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, slowly pushing them over and off of your hips. A silent tear rolls down your cheek as you kick the garment away from you.

In the next instant, he’s on you, and you shriek, trying desperately to push him away. You swing your hands around wildly, and you catch him in the face, scratching three parallel lines down his left cheek. Your kidnapper stares at the floor in silence for a few moments, most likely in disbelief.

“I-I’m sorry I didn’t me--”

Faster than you can blink, he drives you against the wall. Moving in quickly, he wraps a hand around your throat, his hips keeping you pinned against the wall. He’s holding you off of the ground, and now your face is even with his. His eyes smolder behind a few fallen strands of his dark hair. You’re gasping loudly and clutching at his bare chest in an attempt to get him to put you down.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he growls in your face. His jaw is clenched angrily and you can see his masseter muscle jump. The vein on the side of his head is protruding and it throbs intimidatingly. The hand around your throat flexes and yours shoot up to claw at the fist currently constricting your airways.

“How’s about we try that again, and _this_ time,” he emphasizes the word with another contraction of his hand, “You keep your hands to yourself. Sound like a plan?” You nod your head earnestly, ears are starting to ring.

“Yes, Sir,” you wheeze out. With a satisfied smirk, he releases you, and you fall onto all fours at his feet. You hold a hand up to your chest as you rasp garishly. The man squats down, balancing on the balls of his feet, elbows on his knees. When you finally get control of your breathing, you look up at him. His endless black eyes burn into your own.

“Now let’s see how well you can listen to instructions.” He grabs your arm in the crook of the elbow and walks you to the mattress. “Lie down. Hands over your head.” This time you went along without hesitation, lying down on your back, hands up, legs open, no longer trying to be modest. If he was planning on stealing every bit of your humility, you may as well make it as quick and easy as possible.

“Very good,” he crawls over you, his right leg between yours, the rough fabric of his cargo pants rubbing at your core. “Now,” he says in a husky purr, slowly sliding his leg up and down between yours. “Where should we start?”

As if out of thin air, a pocketknife is suddenly in his hand, and he traces your facial features with it, dragging it lightly over your brow bones, into the creases of your eyes, down your nose, dipping into your cupid’s bow. You swallow a shriek and your body settles on a horrified shudder. He leans in close, his hot breath fanning across your face.  He then does the last thing you expect, kisses you, lips folding against yours. In no time at all both of your tongues are dancing in and out of each other’s mouths.

He traces the crescent moon of your lower lip with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth and biting down on it, hard. You let out a shocked squeak, and stare at him, wide-eyed. When he pulls away from you, your blood is on his lips, and he licks off the scarlet stain, eyes closing as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

All you can do is stare up at him, because in any other situation, you would be thanking anyone listening for so gracefully getting you under this man. Well, not today. At this point, you’re terrified that your last night on earth is going to be filled with pain and void of consent. When his eyes open back up, they’re focused on you and glazed over.

“Do you have high pain tolerance?” he asks, tiptoeing his index and middle finger from your hipbone up to the base of your ribcage. Just as you go to tell him that paper cuts make you cry, he holds the knife to your lips in a shushing gesture. “It’ll be more fun for me to just figure it out as we go.” He mumbles.

There’s a white hot pain in your left side, and when you look down, you see that he’s sliced you just above the hipbone. You gasp softly, and look back up at him. He’s already slithering his way back down your body so that his face is level with the wound. He leans over the side of your hip to lick a wide strip across, gathering the dripping blood. When his mouth comes back to the cut, he looks up at you through his unnecessarily pretty lashes.

You want to find out what he’s planning on doing, but right before you get around to figuring it out, he closes his lips around the cut, sucking on it, like he wants to give you a hickey. You can’t tell if your body is writhing in agony or pleasure, because it feels so bad but good all at once. You let out a high pitched moan. Bringing your hands down, you rest them on his head, digging your fingers through his thick hair.

He pulls his lips off of your hip and instead jabs his tongue into the gash. Your hips first slam down onto the bed, as if running away from his mouth, but then they come up off of the bed, and he immediately pins them back down with one hand over the lower half of your stomach. He widens the cut by digging his tongue in further, and swiping back and forth. He starts making the most pornographic noises as he laps up the blood coming more and more. 

Finally, he stops, pressing a kiss to the cut before biting it. You cry out, but cut yourself off when he holds the knife up threateningly, eyebrow raised.

Sitting up on his knees, he smoothes his hair back and stares down at you. His entire face melts into a lazy smile, and you have to admit, it’s pretty sexy. Dipping down to level his face with yours, he licks at your bottom lip again, sucking it into his mouth. You roll your body up and against his and moan breathily. He straightens back up and properly straddles you.

“Now, enough making this about you. Time for my fun.” He presses a hand into the middle of your chest, leaning half of his weight there, and balancing the other half on your hips between his legs. He brings the pocketknife down onto your stomach, beginning to carve words or some kind of picture into your skin. You cry out beneath him, kicking your legs out.

“No, no, please stop! Ah! Please, Jesus fuck, ah,” you begin whimpering and wriggling around, trying to move away from him and that damned knife. “F-Fuck, oh my god, please stop,” you ramble on, and he grins like he just won a million bucks.

“It hurts more when you squirm, babydoll,” he mutters, biting his lip. It feels like he’s just peeling all of the skin off of you. A few more lines and curves, and he sits back, his hand off of your chest. You gasp, and he smiles, dipping a finger down into your navel, collecting the blood there and sucking it off of his finger like it's cake icing.

“‘Brock’s Little Bitch’, how fitting.” He chuckles and slaps the tender skin a few times more, causing your entire body to jolt. Your eyelids are fluttering and your breathing is erratic and raspy. “Hey, hey, Little Girl,” the man--Brock slaps you on the cheek a few times, and you can feel the sticky blood that transferred off of his fingers. “We’re not done yet. I haven’t even got the heavy metal out yet.” You’re barely there enough to register what he’s saying.

Groaning irritably, he draws his pistol out of the holster on his hip, pointing it at your face and flipping the safety off. Your attention is completely zeroed in on the barrel staring you down. “Now,” he says slowly, purposefully, like he's talking to a child, “I’m gonna put this gun in your mouth, and I want you to suck it like it’s my cock." He slides his hand over your stomach in what would normally be a calming gesture, but the branding he's given you starts to burn, hot and terrifying, as his callouses run across the welts and gashes.

"If you don’t put every ounce of your being into it, I will break your fingers while I’m fucking you, and then blow your brains out after I finish.” Your eyes go wide. “Who knows, I’ll probably do it anyways.” He chuckles and shrugs nonchalantly, then slides the gun past your lips. “Suck.”

You start sobbing, but you obediently wrap your lips around the barrel and start bobbing your head up and down on it. All you can taste is the weird suffocating tang of metal. It’s sticking to the roof of your mouth and the back of your throat and even under your tongue. You push the thought of the safety not being on to the back of your mind. Right back there next to the ‘If He Sneezes, You’re Dead’ folder. You relax your throat more, trying to get the nozzle to reach all the way back, but you gag a bit anyways.

Brock slides the spit-covered gun from between your lips and tsks. “That won’t do. Try harder, pretty.” He groans when you reaccept the gun back into your mouth. It sends a shiver down your spine. You do better, relaxing your throat more, this time focusing more on the ‘tip’, swirling your tongue around the edge of the barrel and dipping your tongue into the chamber. You make sure to look up at Brock through your wet eyelashes.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grits out. “Suck it harder or I’ll blow your brains out.” You bring your hands to grab onto his wrist, using it as leverage to push it even deeper into your throat. You add an extra moan, in case he needs any more convincing. He finally pulls the gun out, a string of spit connecting it to your lips a few moments after he pulls it away.

“Good girl,” he runs a hand from your bloodied and swollen lip, down your throat, between your breasts, and across the marring he’d caused to your torso. You whimper loudly, wanting everything to stop. Everything hurt to bad. “One last bit and we’ll be done,” he whispers into your ear before biting down on your earlobe, not all that gently.

He begins unbuckling his belt and pushing his cargos and combat boots off. He effortlessly flips you onto your stomach, pushing your face down hard into the mattress. The lacerations decorating your torso rub down into the mattress and it feels like you’re crawling across hot coals on your belly.

Without so much as a warning, Brock rams himself into you. You scream out, feeling like you’re getting turned inside out and then split down the middle. He doesn’t pause for you to have time to adjust, he just starts pistoning into you, forcing the majority of his weight down onto your head. You start crying again, everything just _hurts_.

Grabbing your hair up in his hand, he yanks your head up off of the mattress and your spine feels ready to snap in half. Brock must notice, because he changes positions again; he wraps his hand around your throat, and your back is flat against his chest.

You cry out loudly at the angle change and suddenly he’s hitting you just right with every thrust and it may just be the adrenaline pumping through you, or the lack of oxygen in your brain, but when Brock growls “ _scream for me, bitch"_ right in your ear, everything hurts for a moment and then you’re not there at all and then you hear him groaning and feel him biting your shoulder and holy _shit_ , that must be what a supernova looks like up close.

*****

You wake suddenly and sit straight up, bumping your head on the fucking cage for the umphteenth time. Your ass burns and your legs are shaking even though you aren’t putting any pressure on them. Your stomach still burns as the scabs from Brock’s first markings attempt to heal in only the sloppiest way. There’s no doubt in mind that it’ll scar to hell and back. Which was the intention.

He wants everyone to know that you are _Brock’s Little Bitch._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a trashcan and I need to be crushed by a dump truck oh my god I dreamt that this happened to me and I just couldn't not write it and oh my god I hate me.


End file.
